‘Where did they find this?’ I ask. ‘It was in her studio,’ Archie replies. ‘She never showed it to anyone. That, and – this was there too.’ He points, and I swivel round. Next to the door, almost hidden in its shadow, is an oil painting of a girl, a girl I know very wel now.

‘Cecily Frowning, 1963’

It’s the painting. I wonder whether Arvind stil has the sketch. I hope so. She is sitting on a stool, watching the painter, her expression watchful yet slightly cross. She is wearing a pale blue cotton sundress, which sets off her dark hair and skin beautiful y. One leg is tucked under the other, one hand holding the heel. She looks rather bored. I stand stil and stare at it.

‘My God,’ I say. ‘That’s – it.’

‘I’m going to find Louisa,’ Archie says, looking at his watch, and he strides out. The door bangs behind him. We three are alone in the echoing room.

I turn to look at Mum. ‘She said she hated being painted, didn’t she?’

‘Absolutely.’ Mum nods. She narrows her eyes. ‘It’s rather clever. The way Mummy got that absolutely right.’

We stare at it together, neither acknowledging that we’re talking about the diary.

‘I wondered what happened to that painting,’ I said.

My mother moves closer towards it and peers. ‘Goodness,’ she says. ‘You do look so like her, Natasha.’

‘She does,’ says a voice beside us, and I remember Arvind is here, too.

I do not move; I know that if I say the wrong thing, I could ruin everything. But I know now is the moment. This might be the only chance I get.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I don’t use her name, or cal her Mum, but she turns to me, slowly. ‘Why did you take the rest of the diary? Why didn’t you tel anyone about it, about the truth? Why didn’t you tel me?’

She looks at Arvind, then back at me. She folds her arms. ‘Oh, darling, it’s complicated.’

‘I know it is,’ I perservere. I real y want her to give me answers. She can’t keep doing this. ‘Just tel me why though.’

She shrugs, and looks at her father again. He nods. ‘Please, Miranda. Enlighten me.’ He gives a little gesture, as if to say, Go ahead.

‘I knew Cec was writing a diary,’ she says, in a rush. Her fingers fiddle with the knotted tassels of her scarf. ‘Al that summer. She wouldn’t stop bloody going on about it. “I’m putting you in my diary if you don’t stop being so mean to me,”’ Mum says, in a childish voice.

‘Did you know about her and Guy? Is that why you sent the diary to him?’ I wish it al felt as though it was fal ing into place, but it doesn’t.

She blushes slowly. ‘I think I always knew, yes.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not important, not at the moment. He had to have it though, I had to tel him. Anyway. I knew she’d written the diary so it had to be somewhere. I didn’t think Mummy would throw it away. She wouldn’t have done.

Couldn’t do it. So I had to find it. Because I knew – the day she died . . . she’d found out – about what she’d found out about—‘ Her eyes are burning into mine, imploringly. ‘I knew, you see.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve read it, Mum.’

‘Wel , we went for a walk. She says that. We were both upset – so tired. You have no idea what it was like. We had a row about what to do next. I said we should expose Mummy. Tel Daddy. She said absolutely not.’ She turns suddenly to Arvind. ‘Dad – oh, shit. I shouldn’t have . . .’ She trails off, clamping her lips together. ‘Forget it.’

‘Please,’ Arvind says. ‘Don’t protect me, my dear. I know what happened.’

I must be imagining it, but it seems his tone is softer, kinder, for a moment, and the parent he could have been is apparent for a split second.

‘You do?’ Mum says. She runs her fingers along the mantel-piece, as if checking for dirt. ‘I never knew. Always, I thought I was the only one.

And I couldn’t tel . Look, look at us,’ she says, almost hysterical y. She waves her arm round the empty white room. ‘Look at the – what this did to us, to our family. I – Damn! Damn her.’

‘Mum—’ I go over to her, put my arm on her shoulder. ‘Don’t.’ Someone drops something in the kitchen, I think it must be metal. It clatters loudly, recal ing us to the present. I look at her. ‘What happened? Please tel me.’

Mum glances at Arvind, and at me, and speaks softly, urgently.

‘We fought. Not physical y. I mean we shouted at each other. Oh, God. I – oh, she made me so angry! But I would never have hurt her. We were young, you know how sisters fight.

We both had tempers, you know . . . I wanted to tel Dad about Mummy.’ She looks again at Arvind and then carries on. ‘I – I wasn’t getting on with her. I don’t know if I ever did, real y. I always felt she didn’t like me.’ She smiles. ‘Always. What a strange thing to say about your mother. Isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I say. I look at her and wonder, quite calmly, whether she, my own mother, ever liked me. I don’t know that she did. The sins of the fathers, Arvind said, and perhaps he’s right. He knew.

‘I wanted revenge, I suppose. Wanted to show her I was grown-up now, I could cal the shots, al of that rubbish. She was always putting me down. And she had every right to, I wasn’t – I wasn’t—‘ She blinks, and two fat mascara-flecked tears rol slowly down her cheeks. ‘I wasn’t a very nice person, back then. I was horrible to her that day . . .

‘Cecily said we could never tel . She got crosser and crosser. I did too. We were shouting at each other, at least I was shouting at her, she was just standing there at the top of the steps down to the beach, shaking her head. I think she didn’t know what on earth to do. She was so young, you know. Fine time to lose your trust in the people you love most. She said I didn’t know what love is, that I’d never know what it meant. I said she was just a sil y little girl. And she smiled.’ Mum nods slowly. ‘I’m an idiot. I know why now. Hah! I know why. I can stil see her face. She sort of stepped back, and – and . . .’ Her voice cracks. ‘She just disappeared. She made this strange sound. “Oh!” As if she was surprised. Annoyed. And then –

she just . . . she just disappeared . . .’ Her shoulders heave, and she sobs.

‘Oh, Mum,’ I say. ‘I told them al this,’ she says, putting her hands in front of her face. ‘That she just stepped off and slipped, the stairs were dangerous.’ She looks up as though she wants my approval, there is the track of a tear on her cheek. ‘The police believed me. But somehow it never quite stuck with everyone else. I never knew why. Archie appeared immediately after it happened. Thank God. He ran down to the beach – he nearly slipped too.’ She stops and then she says, ‘Dad, someone should have done something about those steps a long time before.’

Arvind says, ‘There, as in many other areas, we were deficient in our care of our children, Miranda.’ His thin old fingers tap his knees, worrying at the creases in his trousers. His face is terrible in its sadness.

She doesn’t say anything immediately, and then she nods. ‘Al that time,’ she says. ‘It was so long ago, you know. And it’s like everything’s stood stil since then.’

‘I think,’ Arvind says, ‘for your mother, it did.’

I say softly, ‘How could you ever forgive Granny, Arvind? I mean – did you know?’

He is silent, for so long that I think perhaps he hasn’t heard me.

‘She had affairs, you know,’ he says. ‘Many of them. When we were first married, in London, before she had the children, afterwards . . . She found marriage hard. Being a mother hard. We had no money, we were both trying to work as hard as we could. These days, I understand, it is perfectly fine to talk about nothing else. Then you couldn’t, you know. Not a word. You had to be a contented wife and mother and that was that.’

The old, black eyes are unblinking. ‘She was glad when we moved down here at first, she said it was a fresh start, I think she hoped it’d stop her doing this. But she loved the danger . . . I knew that about her. She didn’t. She never real y realised, and the risks she took got greater, and then

. . .’ his voice cracks. ‘And then Cecily died. And you know, she knew. She found her diary when she was clearing away her possessions. She read what Cecily, her own daughter, had to say about her mother’s affair. She knew.’

At the thought of my grandmother, a few days after Cecily’s death, reading the diary where her own daughter finds out about her infidelity, I feel almost sick with pity, for her, for Cecily, for Arvind, for Mum. . . . For al of them.

‘But I am glad Louisa has never known,’ Arvind says firmly. I look out of the French windows to see Louisa trotting across the lawn. ‘People make mistakes, terrible mistakes,’ he says. ‘But I loved Frances. I loved her. We understood each other. That’s al that matters. That’s why we stayed together, al these years. I understood what she’d done, and how she felt. I wasn’t a perfect husband. A good father. My work always came first. It was easier, to lock yourself away in your own mind, you know?

‘She understood what she’d done. We tried to be better people afterwards.’ He nods. ‘And some things are best left untouched. Left in the past.’

Only if you learn to move on afterwards, I want to say. But you didn’t, did you? None of you. And the ones who weren’t involved spent their whole lives trying to make things better without knowing why, like Louisa, or going as far away from it al as possible and hardly ever coming back, like Jeremy. I look around the room, which is darkening now as the clouds out to sea scud over the sun. I don’t recognise this place any more.

The door opens, and I can hear the murmuring chatter that has been building al this time burst in on us, loud like a hive of bees. Louisa comes into the room.

‘Miranda? Ready to take the music soon?’ She looks at us. ‘OK?’

I see Mum taking in her out-of-breath cousin, in her slightly too-sheer white kaftan, red shining face, floral skirt and fluffy blonde hair.

‘Thanks, Louisa,’ Mum says, walking towards her. ‘Yes. I think we’re ready. Aren’t we?’

She looks at me and Arvind. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘We are.’

Chapter Forty-Five

Louisa has planned it al out, of course. The invited guests have been gathering outside, having coffee in what was the dining room, mil ing around the gardens, and now they al file into the sitting room until it is ful . I identify people from the vil age, Didier and his wife, a few glamorous-looking men and women with the stamp of New Bond Street on them. Some stop to say hel o to Arvind, sitting in his chair by the fireplace, and my mother next to him, flicking through her notes. She is pale, but seems calm. I am worried though.

When everyone is in, Louisa makes a loud ‘Shh’ sound and the room fal s silent. My mother steps forward.

‘Thank you for coming today,’ she says. ‘I am Miranda Kapoor, Frances Seymour’s daughter.’ She pauses. ‘One of her daughters.’

Someone shuffles in the crowd; a seagul cries outside. Then it is silent again.

‘We are here to launch the Frances Seymour Foundation, which wil support the work of young artists, and promote understanding and interest in al forms of art with young people today. I’l tel you more about this in a moment, but for now I’d like to talk to you a bit about my mother. Tel you about who she real y was.’

She looks down at her notes again and is silent. I bite my lip, nervous.

‘You al know that Frances Seymour was one of the best-loved and most-respected artists of the post-war period. She found an instant rapport with the public, who loved her timeless, evocative, yet entirely modern paintings. I even have a statistic here from Tate Britain, which is that “A Day at the Beach”, one of her best-known paintings, is the fifth-most popular postcard in the gal ery shop.’ She smiles at this, and a little ripple goes through the crowd.

‘What you don’t know about her is who she real y was, my mother.’

She pauses. I look around, past a couple of scribbling journalists, at the members of my family. I see, with a jolt of shock, that Octavia is here. I hadn’t expected to see her and then I think about it and it makes sense. Jay wouldn’t come unless it was made clear to him he had to. Octavia is that kind of person who has absolutely no reason to be present, so of course she is here, standing next to her mother, looking officious. She scowls impatiently at me, though that’s actual y her natural expression. Louisa is clasping her hands, her lips moving. She is counting something in her head, and I wonder what it is. The Bowler Hat is beside them, an air of quiet concentration on his smooth features, Archie, hands in pockets, nodding as he watches his sister. Arvind, as ever a mask of neutrality. And behind me on the wal : Cecily frowning.